


Recovery

by weepingwillow



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:02:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingwillow/pseuds/weepingwillow
Summary: Galahad walks into the sexual health clinic where Mordred works. From that moment on, both their lives will change forever.





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a very long time ago for a friend - but I thought someone else might also be able to get some enjoyment from it too! It's incredibly niche, because we had a very long conversation that led to this, so I hope you don't think it's too out there.
> 
> Please bear in mind these additional warnings before reading: there is mention of past abuse, and realistic descriptions of struggling sex workers.

He walks into the office on a Thursday morning, about ten o’clock. Mordred doesn’t notice him immediately. He’s on the phone, one finger looped in the cord to keep it from crossing his throat as he spins in his chair, waiting on hold to speak to someone who might possibly schedule him a meeting about the clinic’s finances. And then he turns, and there’s a gorgeous man across the office at the reception desk.

 

It’s a grim day. Flat daylight seeps through the fritted glass windows and mutes the friendly furnishings of the office to dull greys. And somehow still the man shines.

 

He talks to the secretary for a while, leaning on her desk and chatting, eyes bright and interested. Mordred smiles to himself a little, and then the call connects, and he looks away. The next time he looks up the man’s sitting in front of his desk. He stops talking like his whole sentence drove into a wall, caught in the man’s green eyes. He makes some sort of gesture,  _ don’t stop for me _ , so Mordred coughs and picks his way through the wreckage of the conversation. He hides behind the computer screen and types his meeting into the calendar. When he puts the phone down the man stands, holds his hand out.

 

“Galahad Astolat,” he says, “Abbie at reception said I should talk to you about the internships.” Mordred takes his hand weakly and shakes it.

 

“Yeah, they’re pretty new, so.”

 

Galahad gives him this smile that could sink ships and settles back into his seat like he’s there for the long haul, taking his satchel off his shoulder and setting it carefully on the floor. When he sits upright again he’s holding a neatly stapled resume.

 

“I’m looking for something a bit different for my clinical placement, and this was my first choice. I’m gay myself, and I wanted to do something that was going to support my community.”

 

Mordred looks him up and down, a slow regard. He’s even more attractive close up, in an expensive tailored shirt that shows off tight muscle beneath and matches his eyes. He’s perfectly well kept, clean cut, and out of place. Mordred doesn’t know what community he’s talking about, but it isn’t this one.

 

“Look,” Mordred says, “This isn’t what you want.” Galahad leans on the desk, looking steadily at Mordred. He can smell Galahad’s clean soap on the air. It’s distracting.

 

“I’ve been here before,” Galahad says, “My ex and I, we wanted to get checked together. I didn’t have any reason to be afraid, but he did, and this place- everyone here really helped. He was clean, but we got to imagine, just for a few hours, what it would be like if he was sick. I want this. And I know it’s not a cushy job, it’s going to be emotionally terrible. But I want it.”

 

He looks strangely earnest, and Mordred doesn’t know if he can trust that. He wants to, though. The guy’s story is sweet, and exactly what the clinic needs. Galahad himself, though, he’s not the right type for it to ring true. Mordred rolls his eyes, holding on tight to his cynicism.

 

“I’ll pass on the CV to the doctors,” Mordred says, “But I can’t promise anything. We need someone who’ll fit in with the team.”

 

Galahad gives him a little smile.

 

“And I don’t? Because I’m clean, because I have money? I saw you look me over. And I’m more than the clothes I wear. Please, respect me enough not to judge me before you know me.”

 

Mordred doesn’t react, and after a little while Galahad turns to go. It takes Mordred most of the morning to get his breath back. But he passes the CV on. Galahad did have a point, after all.

 

\---

 

The first day is manic. Galahad is shown his room, given a post-it with his computer login and, supposedly, left for the morning to acquaint himself with the equipment. And then the clinic doors open and a boy in tears is rushed into his room. Galahad holds his hand and listens to his story about a lover whose HIV he only found out about when he caught him downing pills before his morning blowjob. He takes the boy’s blood himself, struggles to find a vein with the tremors running through his limbs but he gets enough blood and sends it off to the upstairs lab. Next is another emergency patient, and then a quick sign-off on an antibiotics prescription referred from the nurse, and then the boy again to give his thankfully negative results. He eats lunch at his desk, a mouthful between each patient as he writes up the one previous. When he gets home a good three hours later than expected, he falls into bed and sleeps so deep he might have pronounced himself dead.

 

It’s another three weeks before he sees the man from the office again. One of the doctors is off sick, and he’s swamped with covering appointments. He’s meant to be seeing a patient, but the guy walks in and takes a seat.

 

Galahad can’t help but smile. The guy is gorgeous. He’s tall and lean and his dark hair falls into sharp eyes, and Galahad’s been wanting to track him down since he started. But he’s been so busy, and though he’s wanted to take him out for lunch, or something, he’s hardly left his desk.

 

“You want me to move to Dr Fisher’s room?” Galahad asks. It’s got more equipment, and it’s empty, so it would make sense. He’s been stealing from that room all day. But the guy doesn’t say anything, he just smiles.

 

“What?” Galahad asks, “I’ve got a Mordred LeFay, supposed to be seeing him any minute.”

 

The smile widens, but it’s a little twisted. A flat, harsh line.

 

“There’s another possibility here.”

 

And Galahad knew, really. He knew the man sitting in front of him was a patient. It’s just- he really didn’t want this cute guy to be HIV positive. Nowadays, it’s easy enough to control, and patients can live perfectly good, perfectly long lives, or so he tells them. He’d still never wish the disease, the worry that goes with it, on anyone though. He looks down at the computer screen and takes a second look.

 

“Mordred,” he says, “Your viral load’s looking good, undetectable right now.” The relief in Mordred’s face is only just visible, he hides it well. But the tiny lines around his eyes lighten a little.

 

“Your CD4 count’s fluctuated though, it’s a sign of another infection, probably just staph or something similar. I’m going to prescribe you an antibiotic to wipe that out. Nothing to worry about.”

 

Mordred raises an eyebrow.

 

“I know,  _ doctor _ .” Galahad smiles and fills out the prescription before taking a box from the shelf and signing off the patient and the date.

 

“You know how to take these?” he asks.

 

“I’ve had them before.” Galahad hands them over.

 

“And how did I do?” he asks, trying for teasing. He’s not sure Mordred gets it.

 

“You’re perfectly charming,” he says, a little sharp. Galahad gives him a smile.

 

“Is this why you reacted the way you-” Mordred cuts him off with a glare.

 

“Don’t push your luck, doctor.”

 

\---

 

Galahad’s supposed to see him as a patient from now on. But when he finally finds the time to head up to the office and ask about the outreach program, it’s Mordred’s desk he’s referred to.

 

“I want in on the outreach program,” Galahad tells him, “Thought it would be good to have someone with medical training out there with you.” Mordred slides a sign-up sheet across the table.

 

“We already have three nurses,” he says, but he doesn’t really object.

 

They meet in the freezing cold outside a gay club in Soho. They spend the early hours of the morning handing out condoms and lube to pretty young partygoers, and Galahad gets more than his share of drunk admirers offering to ‘try them out on him.’ Mordred spends most of the night giggling at Galahad’s embarrassed blustering, which makes Galahad blush darker for entirely different reasons.

 

And then the night gets quieter, seedier. They walk the streets, trying to get into apartments that advertise ‘models’, shouting down pimps. They give girls and boys who look far too young condoms, lube, and flyers for free sexual health tests. Galahad checks the vital signs of scantily clad kids with missing teeth and ripped clothes, pouting on street corners, flirting with him even as he drops their blood onto HIV tests. Dealing with people who are sick and don’t deserve it has been hard enough, but these people are sick, and kicked down, and hopeless. And each one of them is brilliant. They’re survivors. Galahad doesn’t know how else he can help, and he knows this is far from enough.

 

Afterwards, the group sits in a greasy cafe and eats sausages and bacon and beans with a thin scum of lard. They’re quiet, drained, but Galahad seeks out Mordred anyway. They eat in companionable silence until Mordred reaches out to swipe one of Galahad’s mushrooms.

 

“This is disgusting,” Galahad tells him, “You’re welcome to it.”

 

“It’s doing shit to my immune system,” Mordred says, voice dark. Galahad gives him a long, thoughtful look.

 

“About that,” Galahad says, “You shouldn’t have an appointment with me again.” Mordred looks up at him and frowns.

 

“Why not?”

 

Galahad thinks for a little while, but he’s too tired to come up with a reason not to ask. The moment seems as good as any, seeing as they’re actually in the same room, and Galahad likes his laugh too much to pass up on a chance.

 

“I’d like to take you out for dinner,” Galahad tries. Mordred’s face twists, and shuts down. He looks down at his plate.

 

“I don’t do that,” he says.

 

\---

 

Galahad turns up at Mordred’s desk, all six foot something of him, with a tupperware box and two forks at a time that might be roughly lunch for a busy doctor.

 

“I had a cancellation,” he offers, setting the tupperware on the desk between them. He opens the lid, and god but it smells amazing. Mordred’s eaten, but it was a dry sandwich from the coffee shop next door, and it was wolfed down in seconds. He’s craving something home-cooked. But he knows he can’t. He shakes his head to Galahad.

 

“I said no,” Mordred says.

 

“It’s not dinner,” Galahad tells him, “And I’m not trying anything on.” He doesn’t sound wonderfully convincing, and his eyes, they keep flickering to Mordred’s lips. It makes him uncomfortable, but not in the way he’d like.

 

“I’m going to keep working,” Mordred says, the lack of refusal shocking him even as it comes out of his mouth. Galahad’s answering smile is blinding.

 

“You just try some of this,” he says, handing Mordred a fork. He rolls his eyes again, but when he tries the pasta laid in front of him he almost moans at how good it is.

 

“It’s Mum’s recipe,” Galahad tells him, “It’s straight out of Italy, she actually had the gall to talk her way into the kitchen at a Venetian restaurant and get the recipe. And, bonus, the leftovers microwave really well.”

 

“I’m not listening,” Mordred tells him, but he takes another forkful and he doesn’t really manage to switch his focus back to the computer screen. Galahad is gorgeous and altogether far too there, and he doesn’t stop with the stories about his family, barely eating at all as he talks. Mordred knows he should tune it out, knows it’s going to be easier if he doesn’t get attached, but Galahad’s actually a pretty good storyteller, and he gets caught up in the story of Uncle Arthur burning the Christmas dinner while his mum was in bed with a migraine, finds himself actually caring about their hunt through the carved meat for something acceptable to send up to her. He tries to keep his face blank, but in his periphery he can see Galahad burst into these sunburst smiles, just the same as he did every time Mordred came near him on outreach. Mordred can feel the hurt coming from miles away, coming for both of them.

 

\---

 

“No,” Mordred says, “Just no.” And Galahad has to try his best to keep his smile and not let the rejection hurt. It’s the first of a series of tube strikes, and knowing the long hours every employee works, reception have organised taxi shares to get each of them home in the evening. Galahad and Mordred have been allocated the same one, basically alone for most of the ride since the other passenger doesn’t actually live too far out of the city centre.

 

“If it’s any consolation,” Galahad tries, coming up behind him, ‘I had no say in this.’ Mordred, to his credit, looks perfectly abashed at the thought that Galahad heard, and he starts to say something that might be an apology or an explanation.

 

“No,” Galahad says, cutting him off, “Don’t. If I’ve pushed it too far, it’s alright. You take the taxi, I’ll make my own way home.”

 

“No,” Mordred says, looking up at Galahad with big eyes. There’s something in there that Galahad can’t read. “I was just shocked, it’ll be fine.”

 

“I’ll be so tired you’ll barely know I’m there,” Galahad assures him, and he walks off more upset by the whole encounter than he knows he should be.

 

\---

 

All the way out of the city, Galahad knows Mordred has something to say. But he keeps glancing up at the traffic, and then at the nurse sharing the car with them, and sighing a little. The two of them are on the back seat, sitting in companionable silence. The nurse in the front is texting someone madly, Galahad has a book out, and Mordred is playing abortively with his phone. The city radio plays quietly in the background, interspersed with horns from the especially heavy traffic.

 

He opens his mouth to speak as soon as the nurse leaves and the car door closes.

 

“It’s not that you’re not a nice guy,” Mordred says quietly. Galahad looks up and watches him, waiting for him to continue.

 

“I didn’t want you to be, but you’re charming, and I have eyes, you know. You’re gorgeous. But I  _ can’t. _ ”

 

“If this is about the HIV-” Mordred cuts him off.

 

“I can’t be the person you want. I want you to stop trying.” Galahad, try as he might, can’t see a way through being expressedly told no.

 

“Okay,” he says. Mordred smiles up at him, though it’s a quiet thing.

 

“Thank you.”

 

They’re silent for the rest of the journey, until Galahad directs the driver into a lovely cul-de-sac filled with large, detached houses. A woman with greying hair walks out at the sound of a car and waves at the taxi from the front step. Galahad smiles tenderly to her and waves in return as he gets out of the car.

 

“Goodnight, Mordred,” he says quietly. He doesn’t see it in the dark, but Mordred draws his arms to him and he shivers.

 

\---

 

Galahad does as he’s told. He doesn’t seek Mordred out any more, and they only really see each other at the weekend, during outreach. Even then, he doesn't try to talk to Mordred more than is necessary. He tells himself that there was nothing there, anyway. It was a crush that went nowhere, no more.

 

Mordred doesn’t show interest in anyone, Galahad notices, the picture perfect platonic figure. And Galahad tells himself he’s only projecting, but he seems content rather than happy. Sometimes Galahad watches him when he’s taking care of kids on street corners and there’s something in the way he touches them so so carefully that makes Galahad wonder if something similar happened to him. But it’s far from his place to ask.

 

And then Mordred turns up in his appointment room again.

 

He’s twisting his fingers together, so obviously worried that Galahad logs into the system quickly and without saying anything, looking for the results he’s obviously seeking.

 

“You’re fine,” he says quickly, “Still undetectable. What happened?”

 

“My ex showed up,” Mordred says quietly, “I missed a dose.” Galahad sucks in a breath.

 

“The one who passed on the virus?” Mordred nods a little. “He flushed the pills, but I keep some emergency packs at a friend’s house.” Galahad looks at him with pain etched into the lines around his eyes, pain Mordred doesn’t seem to be letting himself feel.

 

“You’ll need a new prescription,” Galahad says, printing one out.

 

“Thank you,” Mordred tells him, barely audible. Galahad hesitates over an idea for a moment. If he strikes the wrong chord, Mordred will never let him close again. But then, that can’t be any worse than the silence they exist in now.

 

“Are you seeing someone?” Galahad asks, “Psychologically, are you seeing a therapist?” Mordred shakes his head.

 

“I’d like to refer you, if that’s alright.”

 

“I’m fine,” Mordred snaps, face immediately closing in. Galahad shakes his head.

 

“You’re treating this like it defines you,” he tells Mordred, “And there are obviously parts of your past that you need a greater distance from. I think talking to someone might help.” Mordred regards him with a slow assessing gaze, and then shrugs.

 

“Maybe one day,” he relents, “But not now. I need to do this on my own, now.” Galahad grits his teeth not to lose control at that.

 

“No, you don’t,” he tells Mordred, “This virus, it doesn’t make you some sort of pariah. It just means you have to be careful. Take your medication and see the doctor. You can still sleep with people. You can still fall in love. You can still be valued. You just have to let people in.”

 

“Don’t act like you know me,” Mordred says, an edge of danger in his voice.

 

“I don’t need to,” Galahad says, “I know your story. I see it all the time. They’ve been through hell and come out the other side scarred with this disease, and because it’s a part of their life they can’t see their way to moving on. Only difference with you is that you think you have.”

 

“I have a job,” Mordred argues, “I have friends, and no one is raping or beating me on a regular basis. I think I’m fine.” He stands suddenly, like he’s said too much, and snatches up the prescription to storm off.

 

\---

 

The cakes turn up on Mordred’s desk the next morning, tiny blueberry muffins with a little note on top -  _ I’m sorry. _ When Mordred bites into one it tastes incredible. He smiles and hides the tupperware from his co-workers. He knows it’s bad for him, but he wants to keep them all to himself.

 

He goes to see Galahad as soon as he has a moment. There’s a patient in with him, so he just swings in briefly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then he turns to hide away.

 

Galahad catches up with him a few minutes later.

 

“Mordred,” he says, “I’m sorry, you were right, you should work on this at your own pace and-”

 

And Mordred doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but Galahad is there and he’s beautiful and he smells just a little of fresh bread. And he has always been so full of hope. So he puts his hands on Galahad’s chest and reaches up on his tiptoes and kisses his lips. Galahad kisses back, firm and warm and everything Mordred ever hoped for and never thought he could have.

 

Galahad pulls back after a moment.

 

“You’re only just coming to terms with the idea that you might be able to have this,” he says, “And I don’t want it ruined by taking it too fast.” Mordred shakes his head, caught up in the feel of the kiss.

 

“No,” Mordred says, “You don’t get to back out. You don't get to tell me I can have you and then back away.”

 

Galahad smiles a little.

 

“That’s not what I’m doing. I just, I want you to be safe, I want you to be okay in case this goes wrong.” Mordred shakes his head again and presses close.

 

“It won’t,” he says, “And I won’t, I want you.” He clings to Galahad’s shirt like it’s going to be taken away.

 

“What are you doing tonight?” Galahad asks, frowning like he’s going to find a loophole somewhere in here.

 

“Cooking you dinner,” Mordred says easily. Galahad smiles at that, bright and wonderful as ever.

 

\---

 

“Can I help?” Galahad asks, hovering just behind Mordred, who’s chopping with a sharp knife. He’s so uncomfortable his skin crawls.

 

“No,” he bites out, turning his attention back to the carrots. He doesn’t quite know what to do with Galahad’s presence, not when he’s cooking. It never got to this point, they’d be in bed with a hand on Mordred’s throat already, before. But Galahad’s watching him and smiling and there’s only so much pouring wine and setting the table that he can do until Mordred has to actually pay attention to him. He tightens his jaw and that’s when Galahad notices.

 

“I can go and wait,” he says, gesturing towards the living room, “You know, if this is too much.”

 

Mordred spins, and looks up at him clutching the knife far too hard. When he realises he huffs and sets it down, but loses none of the tension.

 

“It’s fine,” he says, “You just need to be less-” He’s cut off by Galahad’s smile, which is a force of its own.

 

“See, when I’m making someone dinner,” he says, taking a knife, “I get them to help. And I talk to them.” He takes a chopping board from behind Mordred and kisses his cheek as he passes. The tension in Mordred’s shoulders ratchets up. Forging on, Galahad takes a carrot from Mordred’s pile and starts to chop. Mordred watches him work and has to grudgingly accept that he’s doing an acceptable job.

 

“How was the rest of your day?” Galahad asks. Mordred shrugs to that.

 

“Alright, I guess,” he says, noncommittal. Galahad doesn’t let it turn into silence.

 

“My day was ridiculously busy, but that’s normal. Quite good, actually. A couple of girls in for the pill, and the rest were routine treatments. Nothing too difficult, which was nice. You’d given me enough to think about. How many of these do you want?”

 

Mordred turns to look at him and his eyes are wide and lost.

 

“This is mine,” he says quietly. Galahad leans in to rest a hand on Mordred’s arm.

 

“Am I upsetting you?” Mordred looks up at him and actually thinks about that for a long while. Then he shakes his head.

 

“I didn’t think,” Mordred says, “I cook, it’s my routine, and I wanted to impress you but I didn’t- I don’t think I’ve cooked with anyone before.”

 

He wills Galahad to understand how much this tiny, tiny thing means to Mordred. And, somehow, he does.

 

“This is important to you,” he says, not really a question, and he turns back to his chopping.

 

“I started after the diagnosis,” Mordred offers.

 

“We recommend healthy eating,” Galahad agrees.

 

“I couldn’t cook before,” Mordred confirms, and by the time he has Galahad set up with the pans and a spatula, stirring while he chops herbs and oversees, he’s smiling.

 

They sit and eat in candlelight, an array of tea lights salvaged from throughout Mordred's flat whilst he wasn't looking, and it's pretty enough and the food good enough that Galahad doesn't feel the need to fill the silence. Mordred's put some music on, and he's still smiling, though it's cautious and tired.

 

“The food was amazing,” Galahad says, once he's cleared his plate. Mordred is still slowly eating, so he cradles his wine glass close to his chest and takes slow sips. He watches Mordred's pleased little blush run up his cheeks and then disappear as quickly as it came.

 

“I think it's time for me to leave,” Galahad tells him quietly. He can't pretend to ignore Mordred's relief.

 

“You don't have to,” Mordred says, but Galahad is already shaking his head.

 

“I'll see you at work tomorrow,” Galahad tells him, “You should get some rest.” Mordred gives him the tiniest of smiles and he stands, kissing Mordred’s forehead on the way out.

 

\---

 

“My house, my rules,” Galahad teases, pointing at the TV screen. His mother and her partner are out, and Mordred is perching uncomfortably on the edge of someone else’s sofa.

 

“I've seen this film a thousand times, I can miss the start to put dinner in the oven.”

 

“That's not how dates work,” Mordred says firmly. Galahad smiles bright and wide.

 

“Let's break some rules,” he says, and he waves and steps out into the kitchen. He isn't gone for long, though when he gets back he's still surprised to see Mordred in exactly the same position, frown creasing between his eyebrows.

 

“You following so far?” Galahad asks as a sexy on-screen astronaut pulls a metal spike out of his stomach.

 

“Following,” Mordred says, “Not understanding how this is entertainment.”

 

Galahad rests a hand on his thigh and he jumps half a mile.

 

“Sorry,” he tells Mordred, and he beckons Mordred in. Once asked, he shuffles gingerly across the sofa and settles next to Galahad. Galahad swings an arm around his shoulders.

 

“Just wait,” he tells Mordred, “It gets great.”

 

Mordred softens, but only slowly, against Galahad’s side. They pause the film half way through for dinner and afterwards Mordred goes to him on his own, and puts his head in Galahad’s lap. Galahad strokes through his hair in long, soft movements, and feels his silent laughter and the way he holds onto Galahad’s knee when it gets tense. It's good, holding him there, against the familiarity of the film. And as the credits roll up, Mordred climbs his way upright and kisses Galahad’s lips. It's the softest thing Galahad has ever felt, so careful, and Galahad takes it all. He doesn't want to push, but it's good.

 

He sucks on Mordred’s lip, and he stiffens and pulls away. It's not long after that Galahad’s walking him to the nearest tube stop.

 

\---

 

They've been dating for so long Mordred's fears have become a routine when their patience finally ends. They've worked their way through two bottles of wine, a little whisky, and a chocolate cake throughout the evening. And Mordred is soft, and pliant, unusually so. He leans on Galahad and he kisses him like he loves it, like he can't get enough of it. Galahad doesn't stop him, they've been doing enough of that recently. He licks into Mordred’s mouth and he touches him beneath his shirt. Mordred moans for it and he shoves at Galahad's shirt, unbuttoning it to touch his skin. Galahad breaks at that and he pulls at Mordred's too-tight jeans.

 

“Wait,” Mordred moans, “Galahad, what if my flatmate comes in.”

 

“Then take me to bed,” Galahad says, between snatched kisses.

 

And Mordred freezes.

 

Galahad is far from an idiot. He has known, perhaps from before their first date, that Mordred was going to stall over sex. But it’s been so very long, and Mordred won’t even let him talk about it. What makes it all the more frustrating is that they both know how ridiculously unnecessary the whole issue is.

 

“Mordred-” Galahad starts.

 

“I won’t be like him,” Mordred cuts in, “I won’t hurt you, take your health from you, because I want some fun.” Galahad looks up at him and very, very carefully lifts him out of his lap.

 

“Okay,” he says, “Number one, I am a doctor. And I know your viral load. It’s undetectable. Which means the amount of virus in your bloodstream is tiny, the concentration is tiny, and the chances of you passing it on even if we did some sort of blood ritual in there is pretty damned low. I also happen to have bought a packet of extra safe condoms after our first date, just in case, and I happen to know their success rate. Sex with you, with the right precautions, has less risk of ending my life than crossing the road on the way to work.

 

“Number two,” he continues, looking right into Mordred’s eyes to show him that this is the most important part, “I don’t know who he is, not really, and I don’t yet know what he did to you. But I do know that you are nothing like him. This is my choice. You are my choice. I would go into sex with you with my eyes wide open and anything, anything at all, that came out of that would be my fault, and not yours. And third, I wouldn’t risk it for just some fun, Mordred. I think we could have more. I think we could have something special. And sex is a healthy part of a relationship. It’s not necessary, and I would never push you for it, but I know from the way you felt two minutes ago that it’s what we both want. If we sleep together, Mordred, it’s going to mean something to me. So please, let me in, let me try. We can take it so slowly. But I’d like it to be something you consider, instead of something you just block out.”

 

Mordred knew the speech was coming, and he can hear how rehearsed the whole thing was from Galahad’s voice, but it’s reassuring nonetheless. He finds himself believing it, every part of it, even though he could never understand what Galahad sees in him.

 

Galahad has been so wonderful with him. He’s been patient and loving and understanding and, though Mordred never thought it possible, his touch makes him feel safe. He knows, really, that if he’s ever to have more physically than a held hand or a kiss, it’s Galahad who will take him there. So he slowly stands, and he leads a man more gorgeous and kind than he once thought existed in the world over to bed with him.

 

Galahad lays him carefully in the bed and works his jeans open, keeping glancing up to check that Mordred is okay. The condoms come out of his pocket as soon as Mordred's dick is bare and still while his jeans are around his knees, and Galahad rolls it on slowly and carefully. There's a little relief there once his dick is covered, but when Galahad lowers his mouth over him Mordred's gasped breath is both afraid and so turned on. He lets out a little gasp, and Galahad only sucks him down deeper. He plays with his tongue down the vein, up over the head, and it’s been so long that Mordred loses all thought but one. He can’t ever allow Galahad to stop.

 

Galahad does stop, though, which Mordred will admit is a good thing considering just how close he was. When he climbs up over Mordred and kisses him, his mouth tastes still of latex, but it’s good, it tastes safe. Mordred licks back against his tongue and moans just softly for him, palms flat to Galahad’s skin to drink up his warmth. He slides them down, undoes Galahad’s button fly, presses his thumb to the damp head of Galahad’s cock through his underwear. And before he can really register what’s happening, Galahad has a condom in his hand and is pulling down the fabric to roll it on.

 

It’s not something Mordred thought he would notice, the smell, but it feels somehow cleaner without the deep musk of sex. He likes that, in a way. It helps to remind him that this is something he’s allowed, something good. And when Galahad lets his hips drop in line with his and just presses them together, he’s grateful for that.

 

Galahad keeps it simple, for now. He opens Mordred’s mouth up with kisses, sends them peppered down his throat, across his chest. His dick twitches against Mordred’s thigh with every moan he lets out so he magnifies them for Galahad, lets them fall out of his mouth like water over a cliff. And then finally, blissfully, Galahad puts his mouth back on him and just works there until Mordred knots his fingers into Galahad’s hair and comes, hard, into the condom in Galahad’s mouth. Galahad takes it off and knots the base and carefully wipes him down.

 

It takes a while for Mordred to be able to see straight again, let alone think about dealing with Galahad. When he does turn to him, Galahad’s lying on his side, watching him or staring into the middle distance, and his dick’s flagged down. Mordred shuffles in and kisses his neck by way of apology, working his hand in slow circles down over his stomach. Galahad hums his approval, and by the time Mordred wraps his hand around him he’s stiffening already.

 

Mordred has always been good at giving head. Even with his ex knocking him down at every turn, it was the one thing he could take pride in. But now, with a thin wall of latex between them, using every trick he can think of on Galahad and cataloguing each of his reactions, is the first time it feels right. When Galahad comes Mordred has his balls in his mouth and he watches the way Galahad’s entire body arches, desperate with the feeling.

 

Later, Galahad curls up around him and Mordred buries his cold nose in Galahad’s chest like he’s never been allowed before. They sleep, utterly at peace.

 

\---

 

Of course, it doesn’t last. They struggle every step of the way. Mordred squirms and protests when Galahad asks to be fucked, when he tries to give Mordred what he wants and fuck him. Galahad has to read out infection rate statistics like a lullaby sometimes, when Mordred gets worried. And his fear only grows with his love for Galahad.

 

They buy a house together, and Galahad is so proud when, without asking, Mordred volunteers the information that he’s afraid, again. Afraid that Galahad will have nowhere to run to. Galahad promises him every way he knows how that he isn’t going to run, and he teaches Mordred that with every day he stays. They talk about the future, sometimes. Mordred, still half believing that he doesn’t deserve his knight in shining armour, that his own dirtiness will somehow sully Galahad’s bright white soul, doesn’t see one at all. But he lets Galahad play pretend.

 

\---

 

Mordred gets sick three days before their anniversary. It's just food poisoning, they're completely certain since Galahad is doubled up in the bathroom right next to him. The problem is, Mordred can’t keep his medication down.

 

And he hates it. There's nothing to be done since neither of them can bear to move, but though Mordred times his pills and tries and tries not to throw them up there's no stopping how ill he is. 

 

They go to the clinic when they wake up two days later and can stand up straight again. Galahad holds Mordred’s hand while he has his blood taken, and then they both go home to wait restlessly, until the phone call comes.

 

Mordred answers, and it’s the on call doctor reading out his results. His viral load isn’t high, but it’s above his normal undetectable level. They prescribe him some emergency pills to pick up and ask him to wait a few days, then come in for another blood test.

 

And Galahad has everything planned. He has candles and flowers and champagne and everything Mordred’s always wanted but never thought he could have. But they all end up sitting on ice while Mordred rocks in fear and Galahad holds his hand, equally frightened that the virus has taken hold, has developed resistance while they were otherwise occupied with being ill. Eventually Galahad decides it’s enough.

 

“I think it’s time we both had a distraction,” he announces, opening the curtains on a decidedly bed-bound Mordred. He groans up at him.

 

“‘M sick,” he protests.

 

“Not any more,” Galahad insists, “And, besides, it’s our anniversary. I refuse to do nothing.” Mordred moans, but he’s as powerless to resist Galahad’s smile as ever, and when Galahad leads him into a rose petal bath he goes, and lets Galahad clean him off and massage his shoulders loose. Afterwards there’s dinner, Mordred’s favourite pasta and a cake to share. Mordred can almost forget just how afraid he is.

 

Galahad comes to kneel in front of his chair, after they’ve eaten, and kisses him softly.

 

“I had a plan,” he admits to Mordred, “I was going to give you all of this, and then I wanted to take you to bed and kiss you, and then I was going to make you come every way I’ve learnt how. But I know you hate risk, and since you’re worried about the virus I’m going to wait until we have the all clear.”

 

He strokes Mordred’s jaw a little sadly and asks, “So what do you say to bed, and a cuddle?” Mordred looks at him, stunningly beautiful and kind and so very patient, his entire focus set on Mordred, and he knows he has never been so in love.


End file.
